With the Wind
by UchidaKarasu
Summary: He was thrilled that it wasn’t that dimwit, stupid little genius Near that L was currently staring at with wide, charcoal eyes. And he was even thrilled that Mello wasn’t here either. L was staring at Matt." AU, rated for language. A *tiny* bit of yaoi


Mail Jeevas, fourteen-years-old and the third in line to succeed the Great L, was kicking some royal ass at _Time Splitters: Future Perfect_.

Mainly, Matt was kicking _Mello's_ ass. Mello, whose real name was unknown to Matt and was the second in line to succeed L, was getting totally pwned by Matt's freakin' awesome gaming skills, much to the blond boy's chagrin. But it sorta came with the deal, really, 'cause _no one_ could beat Matt at his game. Literally. He was like the god of first person shooters and RPGs. He was the fucking master of everything electronic, be it portable gaming systems or on-line games. Hell, on-line shit at _all_.

"You fucker!" Mello yelled, fuming while jumping up and down with childlike anger despite being a year older than the video game junkie. Matt just smirked and shuffled in his pockets, making sure he had his forbidden pack of cigarettes and his silver Zippo lighter before hopping up and knocking the blond boy on his bed, as they were playing the video game in their shared room in Wammy's House.

"You're an asshole, Matt. Go smoke your fucking cigarettes and go steal me some damn chocolate bars from the kitchen because I'm running low," Mello smarted, fuming on the black and silver comforter and beginning to play the game to somehow get good enough to beat Matt himself (which was impossible; not even R from upstairs could ever _hope_ to accomplish something that almost completely illogical to even entertain).

So instead of walking out the gigantic two-bed room—which could be potentially the worst possible choice because he was _always_ being ambushed by the other people in the House—he opened the window and climbed out promptly. Well, after he had checked to see if there were any random botanists or other crazy smart kids walking around like they owned the place, and had thrown his earbuds in his ears, automatically blasting some kick-ass Green Day on his iPod.

Mello had been here for about a year and a half before Matt had been taken to Wammy's House for refuge after his parents' deaths. They had been living in the largest fourth story bedroom mostly because they were two of the top three successors of L, the greatest detective of all time, and partly because they had been here a helluva lot longer than most of the nutjobs in the joint. So Matt had taken to climbing out of the window onto the sharp slant of the roof, making his way to the very tip top by the chimney where no one could see him from the yard or the long-ass drive, and smoking his daily cigarettes that he wasn't supposed to have.

Mostly the reason why he had to hide from all of those morons downstairs. Besides Mello, and maybe Linda on a good day, he couldn't stand the lot of them. He loved the place, no doubt, and called it home, but the people in the place needed to get lost or something. Especially Roger. He was a total dicklicker. Spent more time playing with his weird-as-hell fuckin' _bugs_ than acknowledging that students needed more than nannies and a shitload of tutors, and the only reason why the old fart was still here was because Wammy loved the dude and trusted him with his life, after the war in Vietnam where Roger _had_ saved his life. Probably from one of those crazy women who had been carrying his illegitimate monkey-love baby.

Regardless, Quillish Wammy was the supreme _I-Own-Your-Ass_ around here...well, kinda, anyway. Actually, L had Wammy practically wrapped around his little finger. A lot of the kids wanted to succeed L because they got to seek and provide justice _and_ because they threatened to have Wammy castrate all of the boys and shove something _very_ much uncomfortable and painful (also known as a burning hot curling iron) into a place that the Wammy Orphans shouldn't know about. And the best part about it was that it would be a _Direct Order Of The Great Detective L_.

Or some bullshit like that.

So Matt began his trek up, gloved fingers gripping at the roughly textured grey shingles, his black biker boots scraping with a weird noise although he couldn't hear it due to the headphones blearing something by 30 Seconds to Mars in his ears.

When he reached the top of the roof, for a moment he didn't realise that there was someone else on the roof.

He pulled out his fags, immediately putting it in his lips, and pocketing the carton in the pocket of his jeans. He was wearing his customary striped shirt, this time orange and black due to the simple fact that today was All Hallows Eve—and L's birthday, too, he had heard—with his normal multi-seamed blue jeans, with his knee-high boots covering most of the denim. His black gloved hands were skin-tight, allowing for easy climbing and cigarette holding, covering the sleeves of his shirt up to mid-forearm. Usually he would have on his mostly-fur jacket on, but it was just too damn _hot_ today, so he had skipped it. Besides, since he wore the thing all the time, it wouldn't do for him to get the smell of cigarette smoke embedded in the material and have someone smell it on him later.

He dug for his lighter, bypassing his black studded belt that wasn't even in the belt loops, eventually finding the Zippo without damaging the rest of his menthols (that were so damn hard to come by, even by a genius, due to the almost ridiculous security surrounding the place since L's emergence into the public). He lifted the lighter, snapped the lid open, flicked it on, and brought it to the end of the fag, watching the end glow with the heat.

But when his brown eyes, covered by yellow-orange-tinted goggles strapped around his head, caught sight of the figure, he nearly choked on the cigarette that was beginning to burn rapidly due to the flame still upon it.

He inhaled a bit too sharply, which made his eyes water behind the goggles, but he pushed the urge to cough down, because it wasn't cool to cough like a noob in front of the big dude himself, the one and only L.

It was pretty easy to recognise him. The only person who could do a spot-on impersonation of the most famous detective(s) of all time was Beyond Birthday, a serial murderer that had been murdered by Kira about nine months ago at the prison in California. So besides the infamous killer BB, L's original successor, the only one to impersonate L was, in fact, L, because quite frankly, the twenty-five-year-old as of today didn't get out much.

Mello and Matt had seen him once before, as he had been getting out of the Rolls Royce limousine with Wammy, or Watari as he was coding himself now. It had been for less than sixty seconds, and they had been spying on the roof instead of being in bed like they were supposed to be while Matt had smoked his cigarettes and Mello just wanted to get out of the orphanage. But the impression had been completely unique, and definitely unforgettable, even if they were quite far from him. It was hard to purge that kinda memory from a mind, much less to two younger boys that had perfect memories and were among the brightest children on the face of the Earth.

Sitting with his knees pressed to his chest, clad in a baggy white long sleeved shirt and equally baggy threadbare jeans, no shoes, and a litter of empty sweet wrappers surrounding his form, he was truly remarkable. Just as Matt remembered him from the few stolen moments four years ago, although he had been walking with his back bent almost like an _L_ itself.

He took a deep inhale, put his lighter back into his pocket, exhaled slowly, and realised that L looked absolutely exhausted. And not just because of the chronic black bags under his eyes due to a severe case of long-term insomnia, but the expression on his face. His features, pale and sharp and gaunt and slightly creepy as they were, were just as emotionless as the rumours said, but there was a minuscule downward tilt to his thin lips, and a slight droop to his eyes that had nothing to do with physical exhaustion and everything to do with emotional and mental exhaustion.

Matt was well aware that L had been doing more cases as of late, almost as if trying to get as much as possible done before he finally closed in on the first and original Kira. Because it was no secret in Wammy's House that L was practically right on top of Kira, and now had access to the way Kira had been killing.

But enough about that. Matt was more interested in the man himself than his feats. Yeah, the twenty-five-year-old was a God himself in this orphanage and to governments around the world, but the _physical_ L was sitting all hunched up not even a metre from the smoking boy, and that meant more to Matt than anything he had done before.

In a dark corner of his mind, he was kinda happy that Mello hadn't, and probably would not come out here. He hated the roof, because it made him feel powerless he said, and usually stayed indoors unless something really interesting or important was going on.

And a sharp bite gnawed at his chest, because he was thrilled that it wasn't that dimwit, stupid little genius _Near_ that L was currently staring at with wide, charcoal eyes. And he was even thrilled that Mello wasn't here either.

L was staring at _Matt_, the third best instead of the first or second, not at anyone else, and that made him feel a bit tight-chested inside, although he refused to break his outer badass-ness and show it. It wouldn't be cool to lose it in front of his hero.

For a moment, Matt just smoked his cigarette and stared towards the light forest that stretched to the East of the grounds, and he could feel L's eyes staring a hole in his head. More specifically, his fag. It burned quickly, way too quickly for Matt's liking, and he pulled out another cigarette after stuffing the burnt-out tan stub into the carton. He could dispose of it later, and he sure as hell couldn't leave it lying on the grounds or on the roof. He'd be busted, and he didn't have an IQ over two hundred for nothing.

After he had lit up and had began smoking this cigarette a tad bit more slowly, L finally spoke in a strange, dead, and yet slightly drawling voice, "The various chemicals in that paper stick decreases brain function by roughly thirty-eight per-cent." He said it all matter-of-fact, which only added to the eerily blank accent of his. Actually, his voice was completely devoid of any hint of nationality. He didn't have an accent at all, even though he had been rumoured to have been raised in Winchester, England. Not a hint of Japanese clipped tones, or the English dragging, or the American twang. Just...blank.

Matt himself was a fucking _Yankee_, born and sorta raised and _definitely_ proud, if he had to get technical about it. He had been brought over from New Jersey in the United States by Wammy when he had been nine. With his incredible intelligence and deductive reasoning, he had been immediately noticed by the Wammy Foundation, and bam! there he was, all set and ready with his daddy's pack of Camels and the last bag of cherry suckers from the pantry. Also known as _Matt's Thing_. No one touched the cherry suckers (yum) or the cigarettes, especially those old Camel Reds that his daddy used to smoke like that batshit crack addict that had been livin' in the park two blocks away.

He sounded like a Jersey dude, too, but in an orphanage with as many children running around with different nationalities—Mello was Russian, Linda was Scandinavian, and Near was a freaky-as-hell albino from Nova Scotia—he didn't really stand out. There was only one other American at the House, and she was a whiny little bitch from Montana. Never seemed to realise that her parents had been killed seven years ago, and it was getting a bit old. No one liked a pity party, after all.

"Well, I suppose that must be the reason Near is so talented. Hasn't even taken a breath of fresh air since Eve started coverin' her tits up." As soon as he said it, he regretted it, because goddamn, it sounded very immature. Fourteen or not, he was supposed to be more adult than this.

To his surprise, L let the corner of his thin lips curve up in the barest of smiles and he beckoned dramatically to the rest of the roof, saying in his creepy voice, "Well, might as well take a seat, Matt." Said boy paused for a moment at his name before readjusting his goggles around his eyes and running a tanned hand through his shaggy, reddish-brown hair. He sat down a little ways away with his legs stretched out in front of him. Almost the completely opposite of L's impersonation of a human ball or maybe an oversized and thin-as-a-nail baby in the foetal position.

Matt watched his toes curl and absently picking up one of the discarded Twinkie wrappers. It was a good thing that the House had professional cleaners and gardeners and a couple dozen kids that would take a bullet for the health of the planet. Damn activists.

He took an exaggerated drag from his cigarette as if mocking some unseen adversary.

"Thanks," he said slowly, exhaling with the word and watching the smoke linger in front of his face. The lack of wind was making the cigarette smoke stay longer than he was used to, which could be bad for L's "brain function", and yet it was good because it wasn't blowing away all of his empty wrappers.

For a long time again, there was silence, and then L said softly, "I hear the bells. It's rather tiresome, although it's much easier to deal with here in Britain than in Japan." Matt didn't take his eyes off the landscape, but he flicked the ash that had accumulated and ended up pulling up his goggles to rest on his head so he could see the colours of the sky more clearly. The sun was beginning to set, so dinner would be starting soon, and he'd have to leave. Which meant leaving L and possibly never seeing him again. What a depressing thought _that_ was.

He pondered the bells, knowing immediately that there were no bells to be played around Wammy's House by strict order by Wammy himself (probably had to do something with L, actually) and it must've been a metaphorical statement. Bells in the head. Usually meant something like birthing or...death.

"I don't think Kira knows your real name," Matt muttered around his cigarette. "I don't think anyone but Wam...I mean Watari knows your real name, and even if the Second Kira does possess the same thing Beyond Birthday had, if you just hide yourself like normal you won't have a problem with it. Oh, but wait, you've showed your face, haven't you? Probably a pseudonym, but if he or she had BB's talent, then that is bust. You have to hide, like you always do." Matt sighed and snuffed out the cigarette on the bottom of his boot like he had the previous, and then dug into his pockets and brought out his slightly smooshed carton. He discarded the nub in the box just as L decided to speak up, his voice sounding a bit weary and worse for wear.

"There's a shinigami in my possession, and I think she wants me dead. I can see it in her eyes. I believe that I will die soon, and the bells only reinforce my theory." L looked sideways at Matt, his charcoal eyes sharp and in a way sorta pleading, so Matt began digging in his pockets once more, although in the opposite of the one with his cigarettes currently nestled in.

In a matter of moments, Matt produced two cherry suckers, warm from the fourteen-year-old's body heat, and offered one to the famous and elusive detective, who immediately snatched it with his thumb and forefinger and plopped it in his mouth, wrapper and all. Trying to ignore L's weird habits, like the lack of shoes—didn't the shingles hurt his feet or somethin'?—and the thumb that he was pressing against his lips right next to the sucker stick, he unwrapped his own sucker and said, "I won't tell Watari. Doubt I'll see 'em anyway. But you gotta fight, you know. Try not to do something stupid. Near isn't ready to take on your title, and there's no one else in this world besides you that can take over the position of L. You gotta play it safe, or safe-ish anyway, until you're absolutely sure that you can move in without that weird-ass shinigami killing you with somethin' like a heart attack. That would be a right shitty way to die in my opinion."

L nodded once, then said, "I believe that drowning would be disagreeable as well."

Matt shrugged. "I'd rather drown than burn to death. Now _that_ would suck somethin' fierce, L." He finally turned to L, letting his brown eyes fall on the charcoal, sunken eyes of his idol and hero. L looked amused, really, and with a smile, the twenty-five-year-old rebutted, "The worst way to die would be being buried alive."

Matt snorted. "Yeah, that would suck, but imagine being _burned_ alive by acid or somethin'."

"Cannibalised, especially slowly, would not be very fun either, I can imagine." He pulled the wrapper off the sucker from his mouth, slightly glistening with saliva, and continued biting down on the candy, crunching it loudly.

Matt grinned. "Like zombies takin' over the world like in the Resident Evil games. L, that would be a fucking _nightmare_. I don't want to turn into a flesh-eating dead guy who smells like that shit Faye...sorry, F, eats. Trust me. Imagine rotten SPAM with a tang of burnt Styrofoam." L made a face and sucked a bit violently on the red cherry sucker, getting a low chuckle from Matt's throat at the clear abhorrence of said rotten SPAM-Styrofoam stuff. The fourteen-year-old didn't blame him at all, either.

There was a bit more silence as they enjoyed each other's company in a comfortable setting, the sun finally beginning its colourful descent as it started to disappear beneath the horizon. Matt's heart was near jumping out of his chest, he was so nervous and yet excited and _calm_ all at the same time. It was the strangest combination of emotions that he had ever experienced, and even though he kept them locked away behind his cool exterior, he was jumping out of his skin.

Matt sneaked another look at the pale, gaunt face beside him, noticing how weird and strange and unique the older man looked. And he still had that troubled look upon his face, and that, more than anything, really confused Matt. Wasn't L supposed to be this ultra, super kick-ass motherfucker with a stubborn attitude on all things depressing? Like James Bond and Sherlock Holmes mixed without the physical (_physical!_) avoidance and witty comments. Oh whatever, the fact remained of L simply being depressed and a bit nostalgic as he looked around the grounds of the place he had supposedly grown up.

In the distance, a female voice called his name, accompanied by Mello's incessant gibberish about how he took too long being emo on the roof. With a long sigh, Matt yelled something back that sounded _suspiciously_ like "Fuck you, asshole", stood up, stretched a bit, and then dug in his pockets again, searching for the last remaining suckers. He could feel the sticks poking into his legs, so he approximated around three and was proven right. He looked down at L's curled form, his eyes trained unseeingly at the sunset in front of him, and then kneeled down in a posture not unlike L's own.

He was probably going to do something nuts that was going to get him in trouble, but he didn't much care. In actuality, he could feel the slight emptiness in his bones and he had the feeling that L was correct about soon being gone from this world. Regardless of the stoniness and whatnot of his actions, Matt knew without a doubt that L was wondering something in his head that scared him to death.

And he was amazingly startled when L whispered, almost too quietly to hear, "I wonder what name she sees above my head. I wonder if I have a real name at all. I don't remember if I ever was human enough to have one."

For a long moment, Matt stared closely at that blank, gaunt, pale, sorta creepy lookin' face, and then held out the suckers and placed them in the hands that were palm-up in front of his feet. He watched the long, spidery digits curl around the candy, and knowing that they were safe and very much aware of how close he was to L, _the L_, he cautiously brushed a spare lock of ebony hair from L's pallid cheek and then pressed the most gentle of kisses to the cold, smooth, unblemished flesh.

And he said softly, "Happy birthday, L," before standing up and beginning the trek to dinner and the rest of the orphans at Wammy's House.

* * *

L did not look away from the setting sun once until it was gone and he was gone with the wind.

And five days later, he stood in the rain and died in the arms of a psychopath.


End file.
